Partial Relief�

For those tracking Kidney Stone Routes on your map O� DaHuman body, this boy is feeling the short respite from most pain (minus residual soreness) that happens when you have yer rocks in a bladder.

Ah, but this has been fun. Really it has�

On to a real entry?

Tonight�s scribbling ala Sauce comes in two parts� The first a lovely little story from this afternoon after picking up a ginger-haired lad from swimming. The second will be the promised bits of stupidity from a childhood awash in them.

So, HisNibsDaKiddo had a loverly swimming lesson, and as yer idiot diarist had been feeling fetal for much of the past three days�it seemed sensible to collect something foodlike on the way home. This is normally not a preference�as all foods bought are lacking that home cooked joy� but it sure sounded easiest�and tonight anything-even-remotely-resembling EASIEST was far and above the better part of valor.

The intent was to stop at a little Chinese Sushi ToGo dump and collect some mediocre rolls and less than enthralling soup and head straight home to listen to Jim Dale reading Potter 2 (Chamber of Secrets.) Then tub and bed for DaBoy.

After purchasing the nasty fake-Chinese-Sushi, it became apparent that the lad in question (he�s my son, really) wanted some juice from a nearby convenience store (which reminded his father that we would need some for the morning anyway.)

We did our normal, chatter and look at everything in the isles� and headed for a five person or so line. Arms full of juice DatSauceGuy noticed that someone smelled nice, and was answering the always happy and ongoing questions from a five-year-old questing mind.

�What�s that?�

�Hrm. They appear to be snacks, little pal.�

�And what�re all these packets with the pills?�

�Ah, those are labeled Energy Something Or Another.�

�Why?�

�Well, SUPPOSEDLY, they have vitamins, herbs, and such� plus some form of stimulant to make folks think that they are getting energy.�

�And these?� He asks pointing at the Pecker Upper Variety�

�More of the same, with a different label, this time for boys only� SUPPOSEDLY, Sir.�

�What about those?� he continues pointing at the pink packet O� pill-like things that is representing some form of Vim Fer Da Quim.

�Well, those are SUPPOSEDLY a special type of energy for girls��

He gets silent for a moment and continues peering at the packaging, and his father manages to put the pile of small-juice-type-bottles on the counter.

The absolutely lovely smell turned out to be an equally if not more lovely young woman of East Asian extraction, maybe? And she was grinning at your diarist, and noting, �That is an inquisitive little guy.�

DaSauce (Hey! Dat�s Me!) looked at her and agreed that the young man was, and noted for her that he was five.

This is a habit born of being a bigger than average child for my age when My Dumb Ass� was little, and trying to always set expectations more carefully for him (because folks always expected so much of your goofy pixel slinger in his youth�and the father in him now understands why.) Half the time of late, YerDiarist notices peeps looking at DaKiddo and their own smaller 10 year old and clearly thinking that DaBoy is a cretin� when in fact he is half their age. So, announcing his rather trifling number of years on the planet has helped enormously�and ideally will keep the kiddo from feeling Some Shitty Gravatronic Pull From OverExpectationLand.

So the terrific-smelling and surprisingly-charmingly-smiled and well-spoken and even curvaceous-yet-petite-distaff-human, said, �He sure does have a lot of questions for someone his age. And you seem to try to answer them. That�s sooo cool.�

Before your diarist knew what the blue-phuck he was doing, he had tumbled through being an only parent, and loving to answer questions, and actually told her about the existence of this diary� Which he has never EVER done for a single, in-person-human in his own daily world.

She seemed interested, or polite enough to seem such, and asked for the site name and address� Before DaSauce knew it, he was writing down the addy. So, if there�s a dark-eyed beauty from a convenience store in O.C. reading this? You don�t have to� Politeness doesn�t require such. But you are welcome to. And you smell nice. Grin. If you enjoy reading bits of the diary� let me know via email. Curious now. OK?

Anyway, that was a surprise. Further, on her departure� YerSauce realized that he had an outstanding Truth Or Dare moment brought to you by none other than ThisDarkGirl that required that he give out the addy of this diary to a stranger with red-hair. Now, this may be stretching things� but since there hasn�t been an attractive unknown human with red-hair leaping out of the woodwork, the above gal might count� Even though the delivery of the DiaryDaSauce was not done with forethought. Because the dame above, actually had done some kinda henna routine of late, and had a lovely red part on her scalp where she was letting it hang out before washing. So, red hairs down by the roots and reddish scalp ought to suffice� And the rest of the deal with DatDarkGurl was reporting the outcome (of which there may be none.)

On the way home we were still talking about the Supposed Vitamins, and got into a long discussion about pseudo-sciences and patent-meds of all sorts.

He is an inquisitive lad. And a babe magnet.

++++++++++++

Stupidity from Childhood?

As we are getting long tonight, and one hates to bore the living phucking shit out of a reader and make them read a phrigging book-like entry� DatSauceGuy will give you a single stupid moment and leave the rest as teasers for tomorrow night.

Hrm. Pick one, eh?

Back before mountain biking existed, (Hey! It was the 1970�s�no snickering) this diarist and his pals would walk their drop-style handle-barred bikes up the mountain behind his house. Now, these mountains are NOT West Coast Size Young Mountains� Vermont has older, rounder, more dignified (and much larger in their youth-by-far than the little rocky things out here are) mountains� As these are smaller (mostly under 4K feets) kids could march their little asses up the logging roads on them and head for the top, and we did often.

And with bikes a-push in front of us.

Getting to the top, we�d search for the little spring we knew was up there at the power line crossing� and have a seat, and sip at it face first�or if it was hot enough leap into the bathtub-sized outcropping of two pieces of rock that held a fair bit of it--we'd, er, swim? Splash? Get wet? Lay in the water, mostly.

On completion of watering and resting� We would go balls out toward the bottom of the mountain� on and off the logging roads with lavish bets as to who would arrive at the bottom first. This is over stone walls, stumps, fallen logs, through growth�down crazy ass slopes of 60 to 70 degrees sometimes�all on a not built for it bike with drop handlebars and some ugly ass banana seat.

Often the bikes and the boys were somewhat mangled on completion. Being immortal at the time helped� but not much as we all Sonny�d (without that hag Cher) into trees, headed ass over teakettles over rocks, et al.

But once, this boy we called Weasel (don�t ask) broke his seat off his bike, and kept going� Yer diarist pretty much side by side with him at the time.

A few minutes later, the poor little bastard nutted himself� on the torn stump of the formerly secured to a seat bit of aluminum pipe that the seat sat atop. DatSauceGuy took him down the rest of the way� a bit more slowly on his bike and delivered him to his home. Bleeding. And...soon to be a uni-ball.

We still went up the mountain and came down like goofballs on a very regular basis. Weasel never joined us again. He wanted to keep the single remaining Gonad.

--SauceOfStupidity